Bart, the Necromancer.

Well… Bart, son of the Necromancer would be a more apt description. He was never really into the business like his father was, or so you were told, but he’s deathly afraid of the man’s disappointment—even though his father’s been dead for years now. Apparently his ghost still haunts him. So in an effort to appease the phantom he made a list of Evil Deeds that he’s been checking off as he goes down the line. You guess he had “kidnap princess” on there somewhere. Bad luck is what it is, because now he has to deal with you.

The poor kid’s in way over his head.

“Well, it was nice talking to you, but I should be off now. I have a princess to save. Good day.”

You take wing, studiously ignoring the knight’s loud cries of protest. Soon enough they’re swallowed by the sound of the wind, and all you can hear is the roaring gale of the sky in their place. The world stretches before you, vast rolling hills and lush mountain valleys that paint the land of Thadreal to its edges, the domain of the kingdom you’ve come to inhabit. You take time studying it as you glide overhead, noting the geography and landmarks of your new territory as warm updrafts curl beneath your wings. In the distance sprouts the white spires of Tyr’vahlen, capital city and jewel of the kingdom, home to the King and his castle Brightspire. The city rises out of the mountainside like a second peak. And beyond that impressive structure lies your target, wallowing in its shadow.

The Murkwood.

From above it looks like a sea of bright green leaves rustling gently under the sun, but you know all too well that the canopy is the only bright thing about the place. Shadows blanket everything beneath its branches. Finding an accessible landing place is a challenge in its own right, but thankfully Bart had been kind enough to show you the clearing next to his lair last time you dropped by. An unfortunate consequence of kindness in this business. You never really have any actual friends.

“BART,” you roar, crashing into the earth hard enough to rattle the trees. “I’ve come for the princess!”

Before you stands a large, particularly gnarled tree hollowed out to become the fledgling necromancer’s sordid den of villainy. It smells unsurprisingly of rotting wood. And before that sits a runic circle ringed by various objects of power, candles, dubious effigies and corpses in varying states of decay. In the center is the princess, who you’re pleased to see is a voluptuous young woman whose thick russet curls cascade down her back like a waterfall. She’s tied to a stake in the ground, but she doesn’t look frightened. In fact, she’s staring at you with open surprise and curiosity, as if her life wasn’t in mortal peril.

To be fair, it is rather hard to be frightened of Bart.

“Dagon! H-how good to see you.” Bart peers out from behind a particularly large rock. His disheveled mop of black hair and pale, painfully adolescent face are clearly visible in the shadows. “What are you, uh, doing here…?”

“I announced it upon my arrival, Bart. Please pay attention.” You tap the ground near the princess with a large claw. “The princess. I will have her.”

His brows furrow.